Blood Below Orion
by ElsieBelle
Summary: An unrelenting virus wipes out 99% of the muggle population - Hermione's world is cracked in half, broken and with a world to mend - will she finally buckle under the pressure? With the dead not staying dead, and no where left to run - will the one person she would least expect be the one to save her? RATING MA
1. Chapter 1

Hermione battled through overcrowded corridors, her jumper pulled high over her nose to try and hide the stench of the great sea of unwashed bodies that barricaded the halls. In her hands she carried the cleanest blankets she could find and half a bottle of water. Trying as carefully as she could not to bump or tread on anything still living, she eventually found the dimly lighted ward of the hospital. The generators were still holding, though the strip lights had begun to flicker which made Hermione think they probably wouldn't last much longer.

'Hi Dad,'

Hermione sat down gently on the end of the gurney, taking the filthy soaked blankets from the bed and throwing them into a mostly empty corner of the room. She placed the cleaner one over her father who had immediately begun to shiver at the exposure. She watched as the new blanket quickly dampened with perspiration. She touched his hand. It was fire.

Mr Granger regarded his daughter through heavy lidded eyes. He looked thin, Hermione thought. His skin a sickly yellow, sallow with an iridescent sheen. His hair lay in clumps around his head, matted and merging into the sweat sodden pillow under him. Hermione took her jumper away to smile at him. She tried not to heave at the smell.

'Hello baby girl,' he smiled back, as though he had suddenly recognised her. His voice was painfully raspy, like he had swallowed sand and Hermione held out the water to him. He ignored it.

'How's your mum?'

Hermione swallowed.

'She's fine. She sends her love.'

He nodded.

'Good.'

Hermione turned away and looked towards another gurney in the corner, her mother's face covered carefully with a jumper Mrs Weasley had knitted her for Christmas. She tried to swallow the lump in her throat and blink away the burning in her eyes but they wouldn't budge.

 _Just breathe_

she told herself

 _Hold on, Not yet._

She turned back to her father and adjusted his blankets. Smoothing them softly around him. With nothing else she could do, she did her best to make him comfortable.

'It's not looking good kiddo,'

Hermione looked up at him. She gave a watery smile. She shook her head gently and a tear fell.

'No Dad, it's not.'

Mr Granger's began to convulse, his breath wracking through his ribs in dying efforts to clear them. He coughed for what seemed like forever. When he had finished, Hermione wiped the blood away from his chin. She gave him some water and this time he took it. He drank it all and handed her back the empty bottle.

'More?' he croaked, his eyes pleading in such a way it made what was left of her heart break.

She looked around the room. No one was left alive. Even most of the bodies in the hall had stopped twitching.

What does it matter now? She thought, taking out her wand and casting Aguamenti into the bottle.

He smiled widely.

'My little wonder witch,' he said taking the bottle.

Mr Granger chugged it again but coughed most of it straight back up. Hermione helped sit him up and rubbed his back, her hand sticking to his wet hospital gown. Still she clung to it, and silently cried, gently singing a French lullaby that her mother had sing to her when she was young.

That evening Mr Granger died without any parting words. A man of great intellect, educated and articulate, gave a blood spraying sputter and just stopped. Hermione knew that there were many things he had probably meant to say, and she knew he would have meant every word, but they had never been spoken, and unspoken words gave no comfort.

Before she left she wheeled him next to her mother in the corner and pulled the cubical curtains around them both. There could be no burial, without knowing what the sickness was the Ministry were not risking the spread of infection. Though Hermione was sure there was no one left to infect. The Ministry was heavily warding all areas of infection, trying to keep as many sick to one area as possible. They couldn't be buried, they couldn't be burned. Not yet at least, according to the Minister. Until airborne infection could be ruled out they would do nothing but seal the quarantine zones, and wait for the virus to die out by itself.

The sickness had only affected muggles. There were no survivors. A mere few hundred muggles had been evacuated to the Isle of White, which again had been heavily warded to secure against rogue ferries from docking and brining the illness with them. Frankly, it was a miracle that there were any muggles left at all.

At first witches and wizards had rushed to the aid of the muggles, but soon they realised nothing could be done. Most of the volunteers that had once lined the hospitals had gone home, for the last two days it had been the last dregs of the sick still holding on. Hermione wandered the halls to see if there was anyone left, but it seemed as though Mr Granger had been the last. Everyone was gone. Hermione screamed into the silent halls of the dead. A child of two worlds, she felt cut in half. All of her family, gone. Her first friends, her neighbours, everyone who had ever known her as a child, dead. She stepped into the stair case and slumped onto the floor and screamed until her lungs burned.

Harry and Ron had been away for weeks on their first self run auror mission. She had expected them to come back to her, but they hadn't. She didn't know where they were and she almost didn't care anymore. How could they have left her? Harry should be here right now, he would have the right words. Ron would fumble about awkwardly but would try just the same. The countless amount she had given to them both, the things she had helped them through and they had abandoned her when she needed them the most. Still, as angry as she was she couldn't help but still pine for them, they were the only family she had left.

Hermione listened to her screams eerily still echoing around the staircase, lower and distorted as though it was not her voice at all.

 _Wait_

It wasn't her voice. It wasn't a scream. It was a cry.

Hermione ran towards the noise, wiping away dirty curls that got in her face. It didn't take her long to find the source. Up the stairs, through a set of fire doors and to the left, nestled alone in a storage cupboard. A baby. Small, but not new born, strapped in a car seat. Hermione gently picked him up, shushing him softly. She looked outside into the hall at the heap of bodies but it was impossible to tell which ones, if any, were his parents.

'A little muggleborn,' she whispered.

The ministry were aware of the small number of children who would be left alone when their parents died, those little witches and wizards of muggle parents, too young to be noted on the magical Hogwarts register. The ministry had saved very few. Nearly a whole generation of muggleborns lost – again.

She held his tiny fingers, so small and delicate and out of place among the ruin. His arms had those delicious roles at all the joints, plump and pink and healthy. She was almost amazed at how well he looked, as though the past week hadn't touched him, how he had somehow managed to escape the horrors that had destroyed everything else. Instinctively, she kissed the top of his blonde head and whispered to him jumbled promises of safety and happiness. It was small bit of comfort that she was taking the smallest but of life with her – a small reminder that she was not the only one left. Her logic kicking in for the first time in what seemed like forever, she did a quick search of the storage cupboard, finding a bag with a few nappies, baby grows and half a tin of formula. She also picked up a blanket miraculously still in its packaging and shoved it deep into the bag. With a reason to finally leave she disapperated, focusing her vision on the baby and giving no last look at the squalor she was leaving behind.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The baby's cries echoed throughout the empty halls of Grimmauld place. Hermione stood in the hall for a moment, still uneasy of the constant chill in the air, and the science defying silence of the house. She had never wanted to be here, but after the war she had moved in with Harry and Ron. After all those months searching together it just felt right to stay with each other. All three of them were grieving and had a world to help rebuild. It was only meant to be temporary but four years on she still hadn't found the courage to set off on her own. They didn't need her anymore, but she still needed them.

She went into the kitchen and tried as best she could to transfigure one on the benches into something that resembled a cot. It was shabby and rushed and she was sure Professor McGonagall would have turned her nose up at it but it would have to do. Chucking a few old cushions in she gently placed the baby down, where he fussed for a moment but soon fell to sleep.

A thousand things to do – but she didn't know where to start. She wanted to shower, to change but that would have to wait. She had to speak to the ministry, she had to get the baby somewhere safe, she had responsibilities, as always, that needed to put above herself.

She walked towards the fire place and threw a handful of floo powder into it, gently kneeling she pushed her face into the green flames.

'Arthur Wealsey's Office – Ministry of Magic' she said clearly.

She watched as the green flames rippled and twirled, making her vision kaleidoscope until finally it stilled and she could see into the small familiar office of Mr Weasley.

Mr Weasley was sitting at his desk, his quill scratching viciously against parchment, ink sputtering and nib cracking under the pressure. She cleared her throat a few times before he noticed she was there. He shook his head as though she had woken him up from a day dream. She couldn't help but notice that his hair was looking greyer than ever, perhaps his next hair cut would finally cut away the last of his famous red hair, holding on for dear life right at the very tips. He looked as tired as Hermione felt.

'My dear,' He said, scooting his chair towards the fire place for a better view.

'I've been so worried I nearly sent one of the boys to fetch you. I've not heard from you in days!'

Hermione could not help but feel guilty, and the way he looked at her with real concern sent a pang of grief through her as she thought of her father.

'I'm sorry Arthur, I…I…. '

She couldn't say it out loud. Any of it. It would only make it true and she couldn't face that just yet.

'The hospital is no longer viable.' She sputtered.

'I know Hermione I know, I'm so sorry. I thought a lot of both of your parents, I hope you know that.'

Arthur had been the first to really make Hermione's parents feel even slightly intergraded into Hermione's life as a witch. He was as patient with their questions of the wizarding world as they were with his constant quest of muggle understanding. Mr Weasley looked as though he was going to say something else when he turned his attention towards the door.

Through the green haze she saw the office door swing open, the bottom of a royal blue robe swaying into view. The Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt himself, strode into the office. Ignoring Mr Weasley he walked straight to the fire place and peered down to face Hermione.

'We're calling everyone in Miss Granger, highest alert come through the floo now.'

' Minister, I've only just got back, I..'

He cut her off. 'It's an order I'm afraid, you need to come right now. I'm not moving this office until you come through.' Hermione could hear the desperation though the usual silkiness of his voice. Shacklebolt had always reminded Hermione of an accented Morgan Freeman, his voice pure tranquillity which made perfect for his election campaign. In a turbulent post war era, he was the stability and calm that everybody had wanted.

'Fine.' She said, pulling her head out of the flames and standing up.

She punched the fire place as hard as she could. She felt a knuckle split but it was numb. All of her was numb. She bit into her injured hand to keep herself from screaming and instead a wracking sob came out. She could feel herself crumbling. She had never felt so alone. Her hand began to throb and she was grateful. She focused in on the pain. She picked up a tea towel from the sink and wrapped it around her hand. She'd fix it later.

She chucked the baby bag over her shoulder and carefully she reached into the cot. Gritting her teeth she climbed into the green flames.

The Minister leaned against Arthur Weasley's desk. He took of his hat – royal blue with small silver stars- and placed it down.

Arthur watched him curiously, he had always held Kingsley in very high regard. He admired him as a minister, and even more as a friend. Arthur could tell there was something seriously wrong. Over the past week Shacklebolt had held his own amongst all of the turmoil. He had managed to keep things running as smoothly as possible, despite everything around him falling apart. But today Arthur really looked at him. He was unshaven, his clothes were wrinkled and there was a blankness in his face Arthur had never seen.

'What is it Kingsley?' said Arthur

Kingsley Shacklebolt stood up, at full height he was easily at least a head above Arthur.

'We can confirm that the virus is of magical origin.' Said Shacklebolt, his eyes looking at but not really seeing Mr Weasley.

'The corpses we have tested have shown positive for magical properties that have not been seen since the dark ages. And some things that we have never seen before. There is still so much we don't know, but this was no accident Arthur. This was caused by one of our own.'

Arthur sat back in his chair and stilled for a moment.

'Just when we thought the war was over.' He whispered.

Kingsley nodded.

'It is undeniable that this is dark magic, Arthur,' he paused, choosing his next words carefully. 'That's why yesterday I acquired some of the most informed minds in the matter.'

Arthur looked at him puzzled. He could detect a shade of guilt in Shacklebolt's face.

'Who Kinglsey?'

Shacklebolt almost looked away but steadied himself. He had done what needed to be done. And although he was proud of it, sometimes desperate situations called for desperate measures.

'Most were unwilling to co-operate-' he started, 'but at the moment we have Yaxley, Travers, Nott and Draco Malfoy.'

Arthur's face went red.

'You have bought death eaters into the Ministry at the time when we are most vulnerable? What were you thinking?'

'I was thinking that with most witches and wizards in the UK fleeing abroad and with no real experts in Dark Magic on hand that I was giving us the best chance.' Shacklebolt pleaded.

'Believe me Arthur it wasn't a decision I took lightly.'

The fire in the grate grew tall and emerald. A second later Hermione stepped out. The soot that now covered her only adding to her dishevelled appearance. Self admittingly, she looked a state.

Both men looked at her for a second taking her in.

'So Minister, what exactly was it that couldn't wait?'

She made a point to shift the baby in her arm. Mr Weasley was uncomfortable with how much she looked like Molly right before she sent a howler.

'Miss Granger,' The Minister finally spoke, 'There is a meeting in an hour in the main foyer. All staff are required to attend.'

She looked at him waiting to elaborate, but still the Minister stared at her silently.

'That's it?' she clenched her toes in her shoes trying to force herself to stay calm. It wasn't helping.

'Everything will be announced at the meeting Miss Granger, I am not at liberty to say any more then that right now.'

'Right.' Was all Hermione could muster. Her body was shaking and she could feel herself going red. She walked towards the door. 'I guess I'll see you then.' Hermione had never been one for sarcasm, she had always found it the least intelligent way to argue. So when Hermione smiled at them, the fakest, toothiest, lopsided grin, she surprised even herself. She didn't know she had it in her. She felt a little bit of satisfaction. She slammed the door behind her for good measure.

Still in the office the two men looked towards the closed door. Both of their mouth a little agape.

'I don't really know what just happened.' Said Arthur confused. 'Was Hermione holding a baby?'

The Minister nodded. 'Yes, yes I think she was.'

They both looked at each other but had no answers.

'You really should have left her to rest,' Arthur said still looking at the door.

'I wish I could, but something's coming Arthur this is only the start I can feel it.' Shacklebolt looked back at Arthur. 'I also fear this day is going to get a lot worse for Miss Granger.'

She pushed open the door with as much aggravation that she could muster, which transpired to be nothing more than a feeble shoulder shove. She leaned against the closed door, her head up and eyes closed counting to ten with as even breaths as she could manage. She wouldn't fall apart. Not yet. Not with so much left to do.

'Granger?'

Or perhaps she would.

That voice. Her eyes still shut she tried to place it. Familiar, but nearly forgotten. Memories tugged at the corners of her mind, snippets of a green and silver house tie, a white ferret bouncing in the court yard, a little boy using slanders he couldn't fully comprehend. The last time she had seen him – a young man, lost, tormented – walking across the rubble to his parents, his silver eyes turning back for just a second.

'Granger?'

Hermione shook her head.

 _Malfoy_.

She opened her eyes. There he was, sitting at her bloody desk.

 _The cheek of it!_

His hair was as white as she remembered, but it had been cut short. It looked less greasy and she regretted to admit that it suited him. He was taller, broader but still carried himself the same way. Standing straight, always peering down over his nose. His eyes were still bright and focused – full of an intelligence Hermione had always secretly reminded her of herself. For a second she almost felt guilty for not finding out what had happened to him, but a stubborn bitterness bore its way into her. She remembered the ceiling of the Malfoy mansion, dark and glittering through the tears in her eyes. A pain that shuddered through her body so intense and relentless she still woke up in sweats. His face, peering over from the mantelpiece, unyielding. She was suddenly very aware of the 'Mudblood' scar on her arm, tucked just under the baby boy in nestled there.

'Why are you here Malfoy?'

'Why are _you_ here granger? I was told this office was spare, I don't need you coming in here and interrupting my work, you shouldn't be here..' He said, nudging a toy troll she had stuck onto her desk with the nib of his quill as though it was dirty. Knocking it over, he got up out of her chair and walked towards her, watching her curiously. He came closer, peering at her unnervingly. Still she held her ground. He glanced down at the bundle in her arms and almost jumped back.

'Jesus Granger, why the hell have you got a baby?'

She followed his gaze down to the baby. He was growing heavy, her arms were tired and her injured hand was sore. But she didn't want to put him down. He was drizzling, his little mouth pouting and his cherub face blotchy. He looked tired, fed up and about to wail at any second. She rocked him slowly.

'I found him, he was crying…' her eyes watered and she sniffed harshly and shook her head.

 _Not here, not in front of him_

Avoiding eye contact she walked around him, dropped the bag and slumped into her desk chair. She rested her head against the back and shifted the baby so he hugged her chest. He gripped her shirt and rested his head against her collar bone. She almost smiled at how monkey like her looked.

She tilted her head and looked back at Draco with eyes that fought to stay open.

'What are you doing in my office Malfoy?'

He stared at her for a moment taking her in. She could see his eyes look over her hair, wild and sweaty, unravelled from a braid that she had thrown it into three days before. She watched as he scrutinised her black and bloodshot eyes, she did her best to glare with them but he didn't seem to notice.

'Take a picture Malfoy it will last longer.'

He narrowed his eyes but gave no hint at what he was thinking. Without looking away he said 'The Ministry wants all hands on deck, that includes me apparently. Nothing like a death eaters' insight to…. Granger are you falling asleep?'

She shot her eyes back open and jerked in the chair, the baby gave a small start but she hushed it before he could cry.

'He needs milk,' she said, pulling herself up out of the chair. She felt herself wobble and gripped onto the desk to steady herself.

'God knows how long he was there by himself.' She breathed in deep trying to hold back the floodgates which were imminent.

'Left there amongst all that rot and disease and death…'

She wasn't really speaking to anyone any more. All she could see were the hospital corridors, filled with the dammed and dying, blood soaked and sputtering. The smell imbedded into her clothes. She looked down at the grimy cuffs of her jumper and stared. She could feel her breaths becoming quicker and shallower.

'Granger?'

She looked up at him, his mouth still slightly ajar as though he was about to say something else.

'Don't'. She said, barely a whisper, cracked and broken. 'Please, don't.'

His eyes cut into her. He was merciless.

'Tell me what happened.'

She shook her head.

His eyes looked over her hand, still bloody and wrapped in a tea towel. He took another step forward.

'Tell me Granger.'

Hermione ignored him and pulled a bottle and the tin of formula out of the bag. It took her a few moments and a few simple spells to have the milk ready, but Draco stayed where he was. Not moving, not talking, just watching. When she finally pulled the finished bottle from the baby's mouth she looked up at him. Her eyes were fading, she was losing the war against sleep. She was surprised he was still there. He must have been desperate for an answer. She set the bottle down and put the baby back against her chest, rubbing his back softly.

'Everything's gone.' She whispered, a single tear rolling down her cheek as her eyes shut. 'There's nothing left.'

Draco made to leave, and she was asleep before he even made it to the door.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

 _Hermione Fucking Granger_

He stomped down the stairs of the ministry towards the only outdoor exit. He needed air.

He knew it had been a mistake to work in her office. But he thought she wouldn't be there. With the muggle world falling to shit surely there was a million other things she could have been doing then prancing into work with a bloody baby in tow. He thought of her face, defeated and lost. How the almighty fall. She hadn't really changed that much, he thought. She could still be that same girl, laughing with the rest of the Gryffindors in the great hall at some stupid joke that Irish calamity Seamus had told. That girl that would steal herself away to a dimly lit corner of the library, reading some old book that hadn't been checked out in decades.

He remembered watching her once when had first started Hogwarts. He stood on a small pile of books so he could peek over a shelf at her, sitting alone and engrossed in her Potions homework. She was scribbling mad at the end of her parchment, an essay that easily extended Draco's three-fold.

 _That's a Mudblood_

His father had told him all about them, but she hadn't been what he had expected. She was normal looking, entirely plain. Nothing special, or unusual. He was disappointed. He wanted the monster in his father's stories, not this mousy little girl that sat before him. He rose his wand carefully and concentrated. Slowly, a goblet of water that sat on her desk slid towards her. When it was close enough he flicked his wand and the goblet tipped, soaking through her parchment. Devastated she tried to smear it away, but only smudged the ink more into the paper. She bit her lip hard and Draco could tell she wanted to cry. He sneered and hopped of the books and left, the sound of quiet sobs starting up behind him. That was the night he had decided that Mudblood's weren't the thing of nightmares like his father had said. They were meek, talentless, pathetic.

He took a fag from his pocket and lit it with a swish of his wand. He leaned back against the wall and took a long drag. He dropped his head back and closed her eyes.

He thought of her again, walking through the office door. Of how weak and small her body had looked, gripping onto that baby with everything that she had. A small unfamiliar feeling had tugged at Draco when she walked in, seeing her stand there shattered –

 _Forget it._

It didn't matter now. He'd left her office and there was no way he was going back. He probably wouldn't even need to speak to her again. He was working as an 'advisor' for the Auror Office, and she worked in The Department of Mysteries. In a few days' time, he would probably be back under house arrest. Still, it had woken him up somehow to see her. A relic of an age gone by. Part of a scab on a wound that wouldn't heal.

He walked out further into the sun and squinted into the day light. Draco suddenly realised that a black three piece suit was perhaps not the best attired for a scorching day in August. He rolled up his leaves and undid his top button and breathed in the humidity. He found himself a bench a little down the way and sat for a moment, watching some pigeons faff in the middle of the main road. The rest of the world was still. It was like he was waiting for a director to shout 'Action!' Everything was like a photograph. The cars were frozen, most with doors still open. The glass towers loomed over everything, colossal and cold feeling. Everything empty. The city had died with everything else.

In such stillness, Draco found he could be anything but. He stood up again, stretching his long legs and carried on down the road. He took one last pull of his cigarette and threw it down the opening of an alley. He watched it arch and fall, finally landing by a pile of rubbish. He went to walk on but something caught his eye.

The alley was dark, mostly hidden from the sun thanks to the two tall buildings on either side. Some light came from behind the other end of the alley, gated off by an iron fence it cast dusty lines against the cement and brickwork. The alley was filled with bin liners, skips and general tat that accumulated over time; stuffed toys, mouldy and matted, and old pushchair with a broken wheel, an inside out umbrella with its lining torn - and the silhouette of a man lying motionless on the floor.

Draco stepped forward cautiously. He paused at the mouth of the alley for only a second before delving closer.

The tramp was in his late forties, he had a beard that was already greying, and his finger tips and nails were yellowed from years of nicotine abuse. His eyes were closed and his mouth slightly open. His beard and clothes were clotted with blood as black and sticky as tar. Draco felt sick, but an equal sense of curiosity pulled him in closer. He pulled out a handkerchief from his top pocket and put it over his mouth and nose. He couldn't decide if it was the smell of death that made him wretch, or the tramps native stench. Draco was surprised to find there were no flies around the corpse. Draco guessed that he must have been dead for a few days, perhaps one of the first to become infected. This was the first time he had seen first-hand the carnage of the virus. He had obviously expected it to have been abhorrent, but the scene before him was more apocalyptic. The Minister had been right, this was definitely something dark. He kneeled down. On closer inspection he could see that the inside of the mouth was putrid, black and gloopy, still filled with blood. Draco's eyes wondered over the hands. The fingernails were cracked and split, as though he had been clawing at something, probably in some desperate attempt to crawl away in his final moments – possible down to the alley. Hiding away to die like an animal.

 _Poor Bastard_

Although disgusted, Draco pitied the fate of the man lying beneath his feet. It had been slow, painful and he had been alone.

A shuffle down the alley bought Draco to attention. Silently, he rose to his feet and stepped backwards for a better view. From the rubbish a small black Labrador emerged. It was old, greying and his tongue panted heavily in the summer heat. He whined softly walking forward and resting in the armpit of the tramp. The dog nudged the muggle gently with his nose, and whined again.

'He's no good to you now,' Draco said.

The dog looked at him solemnly as though he could understand. Draco felt uncomfortable, awkward somehow, and decided to go back to the Ministry. He stood up slowly and wiped down his knees. He turned to leave but his eyes caught a glimpse of an empty water bowl between the brick wall and the tramp. Subconsciously he wiped his own neck, sweating in the midday sun. He caught eyes with the dog who locked at him longingly.

 _What am I doing?_

He sighed at himself, and went forward to pick it up. Draco had always been a sucker for animals, he had always preferred them over people. They didn't lie, cheat or steal. They were not deceptive. He bent as carefully as he could and swore under his breath. It was an awkward angle and he found himself arching over the dead muggle. He dared not look down. He leaned closer catching the bowl with his fingertips but still just out of reach –

'arghhhh'

So quiet someone else might not have heard it. Soft and low, but there. A voice. A breath. Slowly Draco's head looked down.

'Fucking hell!'

The tramp's eyes were open. They were grey, flat, blind but strangely appeared to be looking directly at him. It's black mouth had opened and looked like it was trying to speak. Primitive noises escaped it, bubbling and sputtering the congealed blood that had settled in there. Draco scuttled away. The tramps head followed him, its mouth still moving, it's teeth now gnashing. Putrid black spilled' from its mouth and puddled onto the floor. The tramp's hands began to scratch at the floor, broken nails splitting against the concrete, it's whole body violently jerking. Joints bent in unholy angles, and Draco thought he could almost hear bones crack. The dog had moved away and was barking loudly at the man.

'Hello?'

Draco stayed as still as he could. His right hand had pulled out his wand and he held it out at arms length pointed straight at the tramp. He couldn't make out the words the tramp was saying, if they were words at all. The dog began to growl lowly setting itself closer with front legs down, ready to pounce. The tramp turned it's attention to the dog and began to rise. Draco watched in awe. It was like watching a baby animal lean to walk. The arms and legs were slow to respond, and it took a few attempts for the tramp to fully stand on his feet. The tramp was unsteady and swayed as though he was drunk. The dog's growls grew louder and it bared it's teeth.

Draco found himself frozen to the spot. But he was focused. His wand arm held steady and his breathing was even. His mind ticked over the explanations, logical reasons for the scene he was watching unfold. But everything felt wrong. The jarring movement, the animalistic tendencies reminded Draco of something he had seen many years ago when he was a boy. Of a nightmare that had haunted him throughout his whole childhood, locked deep in his father's dungeon. He shook his head to clear his thoughts. The tramp was reaching out towards the dog, it shuffled forward until it had the dog backed up against the wall.

'Leave it alone!' Draco shouted but the tramp didn't stop. His rigid fingers grasped at its fur.

'Stupify.' He yelled. A shot of scarlet flew over towards the tramp, but ricocheted right off. Draco tried again and again but the spells just rebelled. The tramps hands finally found purchase and it sank to its knee's dragging the dog towards it. Draco could do nothing but stare in revolution as the tramp ripped into the dog. The dog screamed and yelped but Draco stood where he was. He watched as fur was torn away, and heard the skin being shredded open. The tramp had buried it's face into the flowing river of blood and guts and gnawed through flesh and bone. Blood spewed in all directions, catching Draco's face. The tramp's eyes were frenzied, the irises darting left and right rapidly until they suddenly they stopped dead, and fixated once again on Draco. Dropping the still whining dog the tramp rose once again. Cartilage and suet dripped down the it's chin. Its bloody wrangled fingers outstretched, it came towards him. Behind Draco the alley was gated, the only exit was in front of him – blocked by the ever-nearing tramp.

Draco looked around him. If magic wouldn't work he was going to have to use something else. An old wooden chair with three legs lay discarded against the wall. He picked it up and split a leg over his knee, brandishing the improvised stake he lunged forward.

It didn't take much effort to puncture the tramp through the stomach. More black tar oozed from the wound, covering Draco's hand. The smell was paralyzingly putrid, but Draco held the wood in place.

But the tramp did not slow. He carried on walking as though he hadn't noticed it, so forcibly that the splintered wood began to rupture through to the other side of its back. Draco blinked away the sweat that was getting in the way of his vision. He could hear his heartbeat against his eardrums. This close he could see the reality of the tramp's eyes. They were dead. He had always been dead. Glazed over and milky, sunken into the skull and putrefying. Everything about him was decaying, rotting away. There was no more blood pouring from the wound – because there was no heartbeat. There was no rise and fall of his chest because there was no breath. Its blackened teeth chomped at him, bits of gristle coming loose and spattering in his face. Draco wanted to be sick.

Draco wrestled with him but found that the tramp had astonishing strength. Although fumbling and awkward, the tramp put everything he had into every movement. All of his weight pushed onto Draco, slowly dragging him down. The tramp clawed at him relentlessly and although Draco could hold him at bay he was quickly becoming tired. But the tramp showed no signs of slowing.

Suddenly a flash of purple whizzed past Draco's face. He felt the heat and magic against his skin as it passed him, and tried to lean around the tramp to see who it had come from. George Weasley stood at the mouth of the alley way, his wand up he shot spell after spell at the tramp. They all rebelled.

'Magic doesn't work!' George yelled to Draco. Running towards him.

'You don't fucking say!' said Draco shouted back through gritted teeth.

George grabbed the tramp by the shoulders and pulled him back, Draco grabbed onto the wood and used the motion to draw it out of the tramp's stomach. He pulled it back and as hard as he could thrust it straight through the tramps eye. It stopped, went limp and fell to the floor, like someone had suddenly cut a puppets strings. When the body had sunk Draco was face to face with George. Both of their faces were blood spattered, their clothes soiled.

'What the hell is going on?' George said, wiping the blood from his face with the back of his hand. He looked at the corpse of the man to the mangled dog in the corner.

'Did you do this Malfoy?' George kept a good grip on his wand. His hands shook with adrenaline.

'No.' Draco replied. He shot a trade mark look at George.

 _Saved by a fucking Weasley. I'll never live this down._

'It attacked me.' Draco suddenly lashed out and gave it a hard kick and spat at it for good measure. He was livid. Disgusted. Yet somewhere deep inside of him – very interested.

Draco took off his ruined jacket and threw it over the tramp's face. He rubbed his wand on his trousers and cast over it.

'Winguardium Leviosa'

The tramp levitated slowly. Blood and tendrils hung in the air around him, George turned around to wretch.

'So – when it's dead magic works again – interesting.' Draco mumbled to himself. He flicked his wand and the tramp began to float down the alley back toward the road.

'What the hell are you doing?' said Fred, still bent over trying not to vomit.

Draco took one last look at the alley. How easy it would have been to just have walked past, not to look. But the discovery had been made now. There was no going back.

'Come along Weasel' Said Draco turning and walking away. 'We need to show this to the Minister.'

 **Author's notes* Again I hope you didn't mind my drivel too much! If you have anything to comment please go ahead! This is my first ever horror/gore fic, (my first anything really) but it's a genre I really wanted to give a go. I don;t feel like I've really grasped it yet but practice makes perfect (or reasonably tolerable) right?**


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